


Postscript: In the Afterglow

by stardustlupin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, I cannot even begin to express how gratuitous this is, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26390542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustlupin/pseuds/stardustlupin
Summary: Geralt’s door closed with a gentle thud; he and Jaskier were settled for the night, and that in turn settled something inside Eskel. Just one more idiot brother to take care of. Not that Eskel wouldn’t be absolutely lying if he said that his motives in making his way back to Lambert's room were purely altruistic.or: After a long day of tag-teaming Geralt's Jaskier, Eskel does what Eskel does and takes care of his Lambert.*heavily edited since posting because I am, in fact, a menace, and may have jumped the gun a bit*
Relationships: Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 170





	Postscript: In the Afterglow

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Custom Made](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25053607) by [stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillpaintasongforlou/pseuds/stfustucky). 



> Takes place directly after chapter 15 of Custom Made

Geralt’s door closed with a gentle thud; he and Jaskier were settled for the night, and that in turn settled something inside Eskel. _Just one more idiot brother to take care of_. Not that Eskel wouldn’t be absolutely _lying_ if he said that his motives in making his way back to Lambert's room were purely altruistic.

It had been a uniquely busy day, and they were all as a result, uniquely exhausted. But still Eskel felt an… itch. Just beneath the surface of his skin. It had been there for hours now, but he had dutifully ignored it in the face of Jaskier’s much more urgent needs. With that done however, his own desires burned to make themselves known, demanding satisfaction.

The prospect of _more_ skin contact should have made him sick — and it did. The thought of touching Jaskier anymore, or Geralt, or hell _anyone_ for that matter, made his skin crawl. He chafed _everywhere_. Oil, sweat, spit, and an unfathomable amount of _seed_ stuck to his skin, drying in matted clumps on his chest and stomach and groin. The smell clung to his nose, thick and cloying. It was nauseating, to be quite honest, and the smell of stale _fuck_ only got stronger the closer he got to Lambert’s room.

But under it all there was that intoxicating blend of apple, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, sparkles (if that was thing that had a smell,) citrus — _Baby Wolf_. Lambert who — save for a scant few incidental brushes as they traded off getting Jaskier off — he hadn’t gotten to touch properly _all day_. And that just wouldn’t do now, would it?

“C’mon you filthy bastard, let’s get you cleaned up.” He sauntered into the room to find the youngest wolf splayed on his bed like a sacrificial — well not _virgin_ , but you get the idea. He hadn’t even bothered getting under the sheets which, considering his long-standing and well documented (groused about) hatred of the cold, was truly a testament to how spent he was. Seeing him so wrecked — all loose limbs and tousled hair, his face slack, skin still faintly flushed, Eskel almost felt bad disturbing him. _Almost_ , because Lambert was fussier than he’d ever admit, and the filthy sheets, and enough fluids crusting on his skin to rival Eskel, hardly promised a good night’s sleep. “C’mon little wolf,” Eskel cooed. He perched himself on the foot of the bed, coaxingly stroking Lambert’s shin with blunt nails. “Want me to carry you?”

“Fuck off I’m not a fucking child,” Lambert grumbled petulantly, but sat up anyway; elbows on his knees, blearily rubbing at his eyes with the heals of his palms. “Fuck I’m tired.” He slumped into Eskel’s side, and thick fingers immediately began lightly scratching his scalp in small circles. _Not enough_.

“I know, but you’ll sleep better in a clean bed.” His voice low, and gravelly. In part because he was exhausted, but mostly because he knew all the little tricks it took to entice a grumpy Lambert into his bed. _The voice_ was a crucial element.

“Aren’t you tired of… _touching_?” Lambert whined. He would never admit that he whined. Might stab you if you called him out on it. But it was a whine. Still, he didn’t move away, and Eskel took that as encouragement, sliding his hand down to rub Lambert's upper back.

“Not you,” he leaned in closer, burying his nose in Lambert’s hair both to prove his point, and to seek out more of that smell like spiced cider. “I always want you close.” That couldn't be denied. They were _always_ touching when no one was looking, only slightly less when they were, and the days at the beginning and end of their annual spell at Kaer Morhen were spent trying to quell the frantic need to make up for lost time. It never worked, but it made damn sure they survived another long year on the Path.

Lambert didn’t answer for a while, leaving Eskel to wonder if he’d fallen asleep sitting up. “Fine,” he finally relented, but didn’t move.

“My offer stands." Eskel smiled, but it wasn't teasing. His voice stayed low; thunder rolling in the distance, the promise of something coming. "Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Nah, I can walk,” Lambert insisted, and pressed himself harder into Eskel’s side, eyes closed, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Eskel didn’t bother suppressing a chuckle as he wrapped an arm around the smaller Witcher’s waist and gently pulled him up.

Lambert’s less than half-hearted show of independence lasted only until they left the relative warmth of his room and stepped into the bone-chilling hallway. The cold set his teeth chattering instantly, and he wasted no time in jumping onto Eskel’s back and hanging on like a limpet, doing his level best to soak in as much heat as possible. Until Lambert, Eskel hadn’t known any Witcher to shiver. Assumed they just didn’t. But then, Lambert was always special.

“ _Fuck_ it’s cold. Should’ve put on some pants. Or boots at least.” Sticky chest (and sticky cock) pressed into Eskel’s back, sticky face buried in the crook of his neck, sticky limbs wrapped securely around his torso, Eskel probably should have been more grossed out than he was. Mostly he just felt warmth pooling in his chest as something gold and glowing settled deep in him. _Love, satisfaction — call it what you want_. “Hurry up would you?” Those lips mumbling his against skin; Eskel fought down the urge to groan in pleasure.

As soon as they passed the threshold of Eskel’s significantly less pungent quarters, Lambert sprang for the bed, but was immediately jerked back by a firm grip around his wrist.

“Fuck’s sake Eskel! It’s freezing, my balls are about to fall off.”

“You’re covered in come Lambert, your balls will last another minute.” But he picked Lambert up by the waist and stood him on the rug by the fireplace anyway, so that at the very least he wouldn't standing on cold stone.

Eskel fetched a clean cloth and a pair of trousers, igni-ed up a small basin of water and set to work wiping Lambert down. His large hands were impossibly gentle, as they always were, but he moved with efficiency, and kept a steadying hold on the fast fading youngest wolf the whole time. He resisted the urge to linger at the smaller man’s tenderest places, instead kneeling down to help Lambert into the thick, soft trousers he not-so-secretly kept on hand just for him. He planted a chaste kiss into his firm stomach just above the waistband as he tied off the laces.

Eskel wanted more — wanted to kiss him breathless, senseless, wanted to watch him fall apart and come together again under his careful attention — but Lambert was swaying where he stood, half gone, and they had tomorrow.

“Go on then,” Eskel whispered, voice hoarse. He barely held back a laugh (only so many times he could get away with _that_ in one night) as Lambert launched himself into the bed with cat-like eagerness and agility.

“Fuck this is good,” Lambert moaned as he curled up beneath the pile of furs.

“Yeah,” Eskel agreed, just looking at the soft face and ruffled hair peeking out while he wiped himself down just as thoroughly but with much less ceremony. “Pretty damn near perfect.”

After stoking the all but dead fire back to life, he crawled up next to Lambert and twisting, retrieved a vial from his bedside table.

“That your broken-dick oil?” Lambert didn’t need to look to know, the act was so familiar.

“Mhm. Thought both of us could do with some. May I?”

“Fine.” Lambert helpfully rolled onto his back. “But no funny business.” When nothing happened, he cracked open an eye to find Eskel peering at him with amused questioning painted on his face. “I can smell you getting hornier by the second you lecherous old bastard,” he explained, “and I’m all fucked out.”

“Mm,” Eskel hummed indulgently, smiling at him. “No funny business,” he agreed, pouring the subtle thyme and lavender concoction onto his palm, holding it a moment to warm it up. He slid his deft hand into Lambert’s trousers, and took his time massaging the oil into Lambert’s velvety, very soft, very much spent cock and balls — nothing funny, just… savouring the feel of the other man his hand. Once he got them both sorted, he rubbed the excess oil onto Lambert’s chest, knowing he found the smell pleasantly soporific.

Finally settling down, Eskel arranged them so that they lay chest to chest, with Lambert’s head resting on Eskel’s bicep, tucked under his chin. He breathed in the scent of _Lambert_ , not completely clean, but clean enough for now. Tomorrow they could scrub off in the hot springs and then get to work bathing in the smell of _them_ instead. But for now they had this lazy intimacy. Eskel stroked Lambert’s back with his free hand, from the nape of his neck to the _very small_ of his back.

“This okay?” He asked, not un-smugly when Lambert squirmed against him.

“S’fine,” Lambert answered, and then, after a deep, considering inhale, “s’nice.”

Warm in Eskel’s bed, cradled safely in Eskel’s arms, the smell of lavender and thyme, and the damp stone of _Eskel_ swaying him gently to sleep’s edge, Lambert drifted. Fully relaxed, entirely exhausted, utterly unguarded, his mind, rather unfortunately and completely unsanctioned, began actually processing the day’s events instead of just hastily shoving them away, as was his custom. _Not good_. He didn’t like it. His brow twitched into a frown. His shoulder’s bunched slightly. He clasped his hands between his knees.

“I can hear you thinking little wolf. Sounds painful.” Eskel did in fact hear the slightest stutter in breathing, just as he caught the sour note of worry and sadness, felt the tension creeping into the body in in his arms. When Lambert didn’t offer up an explanation, Eskel cupped the back of his neck, thumbing his jaw, and gently pulled them far enough apart to look at him properly. “What’s wrong?”

Lambert’s eyes flickered to his and away again. Never a good sign. “I’m an arsehole.” Straight to the point, at least. After so many decades he knew that he could trust Eskel with anything.

Eskel hummed, more to buy himself time to figure out what the fuck Lambert was on about than anything else. He was far too tired and would have preferred to wait until morning to have any sort of conversation, but he wasn’t about to let whatever this was eat at Lambert all night. “This about your attempt at dirty-talk?” He realised eventually.

“Yeah,” Lambert confirmed. He still didn’t make eye contact, but even in the dark his guilt was evident to Eskel — written clear as day across the shadows of face, the too-taught lines of his body, in his smell.

Sure, Lambert could be a prick; it was an image he cultivated carefully and with great pride, but he never wanted to actually _hurt_ anyone he didn’t think deserved it. Couldn’t stand the thought in fact. And he definitely didn’t think Jaskier deserved it. Left to navigate his thoughts alone, Lambert would inevitably fall into a spiral of shame and self-loathing they’ll have a hell of a time pulling him out of, and not without significant collateral damage. Eskel wasn’t going to let it happen.

“Pretty sure he forgave you. More than once if memory serves.”

“Well that’s just because he’s nice innit?”

“So are you.”

“M’not nice.” Lambert grumbled, trying to hide his face against Eskel’s chest again as he sniffled almost imperceptibly.

“Hey, look at me.” When he wasn’t immediately obeyed, Eskel tugged lightly at Lambert’s hair and was met with acquiescence; puppy eyes looked up at him imploringly, glistening more than the fire- and moonlight could account for. “Lambert, if you were so much as half the arsehole you think you are, you wouldn’t be so worked up about it. You made a mistake. It happens. He forgave you, and he was perfectly happy to have you keep fucking and fussing him. All day.”

This time when Lambert tucked his face into his neck, Eskel let him, giving him time to work through the logic on his own. If pushed too hard, he’d just get stubborn about it, and then there would be no stopping him from crashing.

“Think Geralt’s mad?” Lambert asked eventually, having decided that yeah, he and the bardling were probably okay. He’d apologise again tomorrow just to be sure.

“I know he’s not. Wouldn’t have stayed if he was, or thanked you after, or agreed to wash your sheets.” More concrete evidence for Lambert to turn over before accepting that no, no one was mad at him.

Meanwhile, deep wintery silence dripped over them like black treacle, coating them in silky soft sweetness, and Eskel began to doze off. Still, he kept up a litany of tender, reassuring touches up and down Lambert’s back, making sure the younger man knew he was still there with him, for him. He scratch at the nape of his neck, rubbed firm circles between his shoulder-blades and the small of his back, gently massaged a large knuckle down his spine. Lambert slowly unwound, his shoulders went slack, he curled an arm around Eskel’s ribs, reaching up to play with his hair. But he could not so much as begin to fall asleep, hovering just on the precipice despite the bone-deep exhaustion of his body. He needed just a little more.

“Eskel?”

“Mm?”

“You can kiss me if you want.”

Another night, Eskel might have teased him for asking for affection in such a round-a-bout, Lambert-esque way, but he really wanted to kiss him and wouldn’t risk losing the privilege. Instead, he slid a hand up to cup Lambert’s jaw, tilting his head back, brushing his plush lower lip with a calloused thumb.

Another night, Lambert might have at least made a show of wrestling for control, but he was _wanting_. So instead he parted his lips just enough to let Eskel do as he pleased, and was rewarded with a deep, sweet kiss that pulsed through his whole body, and curled his toes. Waves of pleasure lapped at every raw thread of his nervous system, cresting in his skull, swallowing the noise in his mind and washing it out to sea. A kiss that only stopped when they were both smiling too much for Eskel to continue with any sort of craftsmanship.

“Better?”

Lambert was still smiling up at him — that smile like dancing sunlight that so few people got to see. A smile reserved for moments like this, when Lambert was alone with someone he loved, who he knew loved him and would never hurt him, or send him away. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Eskel all but purred. “Now get some rest.”

That same treacle silence, but sweeter, softer, smoother than silk and warmer than wool.

“Eskel?”

“Mm?”

A moment passed, the air between them filled with nothing but the sound of their hearts beating in time, and the vibration of hesitancy, anticipation. “Nothing.” _Coward_.

Another moment, another synchronous heartbeat. “I love you too Lambert.”

Petal pink warmth exploded across Lambert’s face, sinking into his chest, settling deep in his gut, quick and almost violent. He bit into Eskel’s collarbone, hard. _Get it together moron_.

Between the man before him and Aiden, — and fuck, sometimes even Geralt — it was getting easier to hear, easier to believe, easier to say, but slowly, _slowly_. “Love you.”

The pleased hum like rolling thunder that emanated from Eskel’s chest, rumbling through Lambert everywhere their bodies touched, was more than reward enough. The soft, lingering kiss pressed into his crown knocked him right out.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love ♥


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